


Houdini and the Deadly Pit of Fire

by Candy_A



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candy_A/pseuds/Candy_A
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle realizes his feelings for Houdini during the premiere of a daring new escape. He struggles with how to share his secret with Houdini, but finds Houdini is tormented by secrets of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictional characters as presented in the TV series, Houdini & Doyle.

Doyle didn’t often attend Houdini’s performances, but his friend was premiering a new escape that was creating quite a sensation, and Houdini had been relentless in trying to get Doyle to agree to an evening out. It had been almost six months since Touie had succumbed to her illness, and Houdini was of the opinion that he needed to start living again. Doyle was not at all sure this would be his definition of "living", but it had seemed important to Houdini that he be in the audience for this big moment.

 

Houdini was to be dangled over a pit of fire suspended by a rope, connected to a locked harness with handcuffs attached that he would have to undo in a certain amount of time to free himself. While he wasn’t looking forward to watching Harry dangle himself over a burning pit, a true friend would attend and cheer him on despite the continued insanity of what he did to himself for a living. Doyle was nothing if he wasn’t a true friend.

 

The show included a few minor illusions and tricks, which Houdini performed with his usual flair, delighting the audience and drawing their cheers and applause. The Deadly Pit of Fire, as it was titled, was the finale of the show, and Doyle found himself looking around to see if the fire brigade were on standby. He was sure Houdini had some safeguards in place - after all, the man didn’t seem suicidal, even if he was a daredevil - but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t locate them.

 

The stunt was spectacular, horrifying in its implications as Houdini struggled, suspended from a rope, the fire blazing beneath him. Doyle figured he was sweating harder than his friend was, especially as Houdini, covered with a sheen of sweat from the heat of the fire, executed a carefully orchestrated lurch and slip right near the end that had the audience gasping, screaming, and on their feet, expecting him to plunge to a fiery death.

 

It was a pivotal moment as Doyle felt his heart race, his stomach clench, his legs feel weak even as he stood with the rest of the audience, horrified, waiting to witness an unthinkable spectacle. At that moment, he hadn’t reasoned through that it was all part of the act. He hadn’t reasoned through it because something else was obliterating his analytical thinking capabilities.

 

It was at that precise instant that he realized he’d fallen in love with Houdini, that if he were to plunge to his death, he would have never told him as much. He would have never truly let on just how much Harry meant to him, even as a friend. They were close, they had a solid, enjoyable friendship, but if Houdini were to die suddenly in one of these absurd spectacles, Doyle seriously doubted he would ever realize how much he was loved, even as a friend. While he was still a married man, he'd been unable to bring himself to admit to the feelings he had for his friend, and now that he was a widower, it seemed disrespectful to his wife's memory to entertain such thoughts. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to avoid the inconvenient fact that the object of his affections was a man.

 

Houdini regained control of the situation, for the benefit of the audience, now that at least three women had fainted and a few of the men didn’t look much steadier, Doyle among them. A moment later, Houdini freed himself, grabbed hold of the rope, and held on while members of the fire brigade rushed on stage and extinguished the fire. His assistants quickly covered the pit with a platform where he was lowered to stand, take his bows, and enjoy the screams and applause of a shocked, terrified, and ultimately delighted audience.

 

A delighted audience that included a coward who loved him in silence and continued to pretend that his feelings were all proper and platonic, and even then, a profession of brotherly love had never escaped Doyle’s infamous stiff upper lip.

 

There was little point in trying to fight the backstage crowd. As much of the audience as could finagle a way back there, were rushing the place, and the usual hangers on and VIP guests were already surrounding the star’s dressing room, waiting for him to come out and receive his praise and accolades. Houdini knew it was an amazing stunt. He didn’t need Doyle to tell him that. What Doyle wanted to tell him required privacy, for both of them. It would either shatter their friendship into a million irreparable pieces, or it would be the beginning of something more incredible than the Deadly Pit of Fire. And potentially just as incendiary.

 

********

 

It was well after one in the morning as Doyle approached the door to the Royal Suite of the Metropole. He half expected to hear laughter and the sounds of partying and revelry after such a stunning debut of a new escape. Still dressed in his white tie and tails, he anticipated having to wait for the last of party stragglers to leave before he could have a moment alone with his friend. Instead, it was eerily silent. As he raised his hand to knock, the door opened and another man, similarly dressed, about his age, almost ran into him.

 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the other man said, rushing by him and down the hall. Now that Doyle thought of it, the man somewhat resembled him in stature and coloring, even had a similar moustache.

 

He walked into Houdini’s suite, but didn’t see any sign of him. The parlor was only lit by a faint glow spilling from the partially open bedroom door. Thinking of the departing man’s slightly flushed face and haste to leave, a possible scenario flashed across his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. Not only did Houdini show no signs of interest in those of his own sex, but Doyle would have expected a curvaceous young woman to be sneaking out of Houdini’s suite at such an hour, not a middle-aged man in a suit of tails.

 

Before he could make his presence known, Houdini walked out of his bedroom, clad only in his silk robe. His bare chest and bare legs were a good indication he wore nothing under it.

 

“Doyle...what are you doing here?” he asked, though his tone was uncharacteristically flat.

 

“I came to congratulate you,” he said, knowing how lame and weak the lie was. “I was about to knock when another gentleman opened the door to leave, so I took the liberty of coming in. I expected you’d still be up, receiving guests.”

 

“Thanks for the congratulations. And that was no gentleman. You can lock up on your way out,” he said, turning and heading back toward his bedroom.

 

“Harry, wait,” Doyle said, moving toward him. Harry paused, but didn’t turn around. “I get the distinct feeling that something’s wrong.”

 

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. It’s been a rough night. I thought you’d be at the party backstage,” he finally turned to look at Doyle. He looked exhausted and sad.

 

“I planned to be, but then I wanted to speak with you privately and that hardly seemed the place to do it. Maybe I'm not quite ready for all that din and merriment so soon after... When I came here, I expected you’d probably have guests in your suite as well, but then there was no one except the man who left...”

 

“Now you’ll be wanting an explanation,” Harry said tiredly, going to a table that held an ornate decanter of scotch and pouring two glasses. He handed one to Doyle and then downed his own in one large gulp before refilling it. He found that unsettling since he’d only seen Harry drink on two occasions since he’d known him: at Falcroft Manor shortly after his mother died, and now.

 

“It’s none of my business,” he said, deciding not to comment on the drinking. Harry snorted at that.

 

“That’s one of the things people say when they suspect they know you’re a deviant but hearing it in so many words is awkward.”

 

Somehow, even faced with the possibility that Harry could be interested in someone of his own sex, Arthur couldn't quite bring himself to say what he came to say. Maybe it was hearing Harry refer to himself as a deviant...which, of course, would make Arthur a deviant, too, by definition.

 

"Why would I think you were a deviant?"

 

"Because you just saw some guy leaving my suite in the middle of the night while I'm walking around in my robe looking like I just got run over by a horse-drawn carriage."

 

"I did find that rather odd, but you don't have to explain yourself to me." Arthur glanced downward, then his eyes widened as he noticed a thin drizzle of blood on Harry’s leg, making its way toward his ankle. Without thinking, he moved forward and took Harry’s arm. “You’re bleeding,” he said. Harry looked down and noticed the blood then.

 

“I usually am when it’s over.”

 

“When what’s over?” Arthur blurted, then he felt sick, horrified, awful. _That was no gentleman._ “The man who left...did this to you?”

 

“I can’t do this anymore. Glad you enjoyed the show, Doc, because it was probably my last.”

 

“First things first, Harry. You’re bleeding. I’m a doctor. Let me take care of your injuries.”

 

“You’re joking, right? You know what kind of ‘injuries’ we’re talking about. You think I want you taking care of that for me? It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. I can take care of myself. I’m going to take a bath. Wash the stench off me.”

 

“You could be seriously injured.”

 

“I could be, but I’m not. I’m going to wash up. If you want to stay...” he paused. “If you still want anything to do with me after...”

 

“Of course, I’ll stay. I wish you’d let me help you.”

 

“I’ll be done in a few minutes. Just...wait here, okay?”

 

“All right,” Arthur reluctantly agreed, sitting in one of the ornate chairs in the parlor as Harry disappeared into his bedroom suite. Before long, he was up and pacing, pouring himself another drink. He was a doctor, for God’s sake, and his friend was bleeding, and he was standing around swizzling scotch instead of insisting on providing him with medical attention.

 

He went to the bedroom door, opened it, and finding that room empty, continued to the second closed door, which he assumed led to the bathroom.

 

“Harry, I’m coming in,” he said, knocking on it. There was no response, so he opened the door. Harry was standing in front of the mirror, towel around his waist. There was a faint tinge of pink in the used bath water in the tub. Finger-sized bruises were blossoming on the pale skin of Harry’s upper arms and shoulders. There were bite marks on his neck that had broken the skin.

 

“Is this what you wanted to see?” Harry challenged, sighing. “Why did you have to come in here?”

 

“Because I’m a doctor and...” he paused, not sure how to continue without upsetting Harry more or drawing an angry, sarcastic reply from him.

 

“And?” Harry looked at him, and for the first time that night, Arthur saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He also noticed a reddened area forming on his face, as if he’d been struck. He reached out and lightly skimmed the bruised skin with his fingertips. Then he leaned forward and kissed the spot. Harry didn't move away, didn't object to the gesture.

"You said you wanted to speak to me privately," he said, looking into Arthur's eyes.

 

"I have...feelings for you, and until now, I thought it was rather hopeless. But I swear, Harry, I would prefer that you never be able to see me that way than to know you were hurt like this."

 

"You'd still want anything to do with me after this?"

 

"This is not your fault."

 

"How do you know that?"

 

"Because I know you. And I know that no one would ask to be treated this way."

 

Harry held his gaze for a moment before his expression faltered and he looked away, and the fact he looked ashamed broke Arthur's heart and made him angrier even than the bruises marring Harry's skin.

 

“Hot water probably just encouraged the bleeding. Has it stopped?”

 

“I wanted his filth off me. _Out_ of me.” He paused. "It's not running down my leg, so I guess it's better."

 

“He forced himself on you?” Arthur asked carefully.

 

“Not exactly. I’ll...explain everything...”

 

“No need right now,” Arthur replied. "You should rest, get off your feet a while. And I want to clean and disinfect those bite marks. If you don’t want me to examine you...I understand...as long as the bleeding stops.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“All right,” Arthur conceded, figuring Harry had been forced and abused enough for one night without him adding to it.

 

“My pajamas and robe are on the bed,” he said. Arthur figured that meant he wanted some privacy to put them on. 

 

“I’ll get them.”

 

Arthur retrieved the items, including a fresh pair of shorts laid out there with them. Harry had obviously thrown the covers up over the rumpled bed, and Arthur was just as glad. He wasn’t sure he was up to seeing the results of what had to have been a painful assault staring him in the face on the hotel’s expensive sheets. He picked up the nightclothes and returned to the bathroom. He wasn’t surprised when Harry took the items.

“I can handle this.”

 

“I’ll get something for the...abrasions and wait for you in the bedroom.”

 

“I don’t want to be in there. I’ll come out to the parlor.”

 

“All right,” Arthur agreed, finding alcohol and ointment in the medicine cabinet and taking the items out to the parlor.

 

Harry wasn’t long in the bathroom before he came out to the parlor and eased himself down on the settee. Arthur carefully moved the collars of his robe and pajamas back enough to clean the area around the bite marks and put a bit of ointment there. He set his supplies aside and then sat there with Harry, facing him.

 

“Who is he?” he asked, finally letting himself feel some of the rage that was building inside him. The bastard who did this was going to pay for it.

 

“I met him about six months ago, not long after we got back from Nethermoor. He reminded me of you,” he admitted softly.

 

“You wanted someone who reminded you of me? I thought...when we talked about Nigel Pennington and Adelaide’s husband...”

 

“Yeah, I faked being turned off by the thought of two men sleeping together. I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only man in the world to do that for his own protection.”

 

“No, I’m sure you aren’t. I'm interrupting. What happened when you met this man?”

 

“We had a short affair. It was never anything meaningful. Sometimes if it was dark enough in the room, I pretended he was you. Pathetic, right?”

 

“No, of course not,” Arthur said, not sure if he should touch Harry or not. Finally, he reached over and gently covered Harry's hand where it rested on his knee. “Under the circumstances, the fact you were attracted to someone like me is not altogether bad news.”

 

“He’s nothing like you. I found that out soon enough. He’s got the height and the cookie duster, but that’s where it ends.”

 

“Cookie duster?” Arthur repeated, grinning. 

 

“Okay, you’d probably say ‘biscuit duster’, but it’s the same thing.”

 

“Was he always so violent with you?”

 

Harry grasped his hand, holding it firmly. “No. I never really cared for him but the sex was okay. My mother knew about me...about what I am. It’s one of the reasons she never wanted to leave me - she worried about me, that someone would find out and I’d get hurt, or worse.” He paused. “She knew how alone I felt most of the time. Women are a distraction but...not what I want.”

 

“No wonder you were so devastated when she died. She was the only one who really knew you.”

 

“She was the only one I could ever talk to, be honest with.” He smiled. “She thought you were handsome.”

 

“You told her you...that you saw me that way?”

 

“No. After the first time she met you, she said to me, ‘Dr. Doyle, he’s a tall, handsome one, isn’t he?’ She knew it. I didn’t even bother denying it.” His smile faded quickly. “She wasn’t judgmental of the fact I liked men, but she had the morals of her time about any kind of fooling around, so I tried to be discreet and not embarrass her - with men or women. I’m sure she knew someone came and went from my room late at night on a few occasions.”

 

“You were...seeing him?”

 

“That’s a nice word for it, but yes. After she passed away, and we got back from Canada, he contacted me wanting to get together again. I didn’t exactly want to, but the nights here can get so lonely...so quiet. I remember Ma complaining about how quiet the hotel got sometimes. I left her alone a lot, and I regret that now. So much,” he added, swallowing. “I agreed, and we got together and did what we do and he left and I thought that was the end of it. He kept calling and sending messages about meeting again, and I didn’t want to. I wasn’t really interested in continuing it. So I told him that, but he insisted on seeing me because he said he had something that would change my mind.”

 

“What was it?”

 

“A photograph. Somehow, the last time we were...together, he must have snuck someone else into the suite. He got a picture of us together, and while you can’t see his face well, you can clearly see mine, along with most of the rest of me. It’s obvious in the picture that I’m having sex with a man. He said he’d give it to the press if I broke it off with him.”

 

“You’ve been tolerating this treatment to buy his silence?”

 

“You sound judgmental, Doc.” 

 

“I don't mean to be, but it seems so...drastic because of a photograph. Surely there was some other way.”

 

“How? If that picture got out, my career would be over. And I figured you and Addie would be finished with me, too. My relationship with what’s left of my family isn't great now, but if they had confirmation of that...they'd disown me, too. I didn't know how to get out of it with any of my life or my reputation left.”

 

“I would not have been finished with you, Harry, even if I didn't...feel the way I do," Arthur said. "How many times has he treated you this way?” 

 

“Five or six times. Sometimes I can put him off for a while, but he keeps after me, threatens me with the photograph. At first he wasn’t violent, but then it’s as if he figured out he could treat me any way he wanted because if I couldn’t expose him over the affair itself, I couldn’t expose him for hurting me, either. He started to really enjoy making me...lie there and take it, humiliating me. Making fun of me, because he knew I couldn’t stop him.”

 

“We’re going to stop him.”

 

“We? How? You need to stay away from me, because once he gives that picture to the press, any other man associated with me is going to fall under suspicion.”

 

“He’s not releasing anything to anyone, but you need to tell me who he is.”

 

“I don’t understand. How do you think you can stop him if I couldn’t?”

 

“He’s a bully and a degenerate. The day Sherlock Holmes can’t outwit one of those, I need to abandon my writing career.”

 

“This isn’t a story, Doc. It’s real life. My life.”

 

“My point is that while Sherlock Holmes is fictional, writing him is all about constructing a plot and making a study of human behavior. Your work is not dissimilar in that regard. We should be able to outsmart this man and end his control over you.”

 

“I won’t be with him again. I can’t. Even if he ruins me. I can’t take it anymore.”

 

"I wouldn't allow you to do that even if you were willing. He's brutalized you for the last time."

 

"What if we can't stop him before he makes that picture public?"

 

"We'll stop him before that," Arthur said decisively. _If I have to kill the bastard with my bare hands._ "In the event we can't, I will be by your side every step of the way."

 

"You can't do that."

 

"I can, and I shall. You look exhausted."

 

"I am," he admitted.

 

"I'll get rid of the bedding there, call housekeeping for some fresh sheets."

"Tonight could have turned out so differently," Harry said, smiling sadly. “I thought if you were at the party backstage, he...he’d have to leave me alone tonight.”

 

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize...”

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not your fault. I did this to myself, you didn’t cause it.”

 

“You didn’t do it to yourself, he did it to you. Who is he?”

 

“His name is Herbert Stafford. He’s the headmaster at the Stafford School. His father started it.”

 

“The Stafford School? It’s a school for boys, Harry. I wonder how many of them...”

 

“I don’t know.” He was quiet a few seconds. “Just because he likes men doesn’t mean he likes boys, too.”

 

“I know that. I just declared my feelings for you, so you don’t have to explain how it works when men are attracted to men.”

 

“Have you always been attracted to men?”

 

“There were a couple schoolmates I had some...inappropriate thoughts about, but I’ve always leaned toward the fairer sex. After I met Touie, I never looked at anyone else, male or female. Until I met you, and you complicated my life terribly.”

 

“I have a way of doing that to people.”

 

“I was joking, Harry,” he said gently, touching his bruised cheek. “If he ever touches you again, I will kill him.”

 

Harry leaned into the touch. “He was such a sorry substitute,” he said quietly.

 

“And I left you there tonight, when you asked me to be there. It was just so crowded and with all the well wishers...and I wanted to speak with you alone. I would have never left you to...this, if I’d known.”

 

“I know. I want to lie down, but not in there right now.”

 

Arthur paused, looking around. Then he took out his pipe and a match and lit the cushion of one of the fancy chairs on fire.

 

“What are you doing?” Harry demanded. He’d finally done something so insane that he’d managed to shock the Great Houdini. He’d have to remember this night, always. He grabbed the elegant tapestry throw that adorned the back of the settee and used it to smother the flames. The smell of the smoldering upholstery was horrible, smoke hanging heavy in the air. Harry coughed as he went to the window and opened it, taking in some deep breaths.

 

Arthur calmly picked up the phone and called the front desk. When the desk clerk answered, he launched into his story.

 

“This is Dr. Doyle, I’m calling from Mr. Houdini’s suite. I’m afraid we’ve had a slight mishap here. I somehow managed to ignite the cushion of one of your chairs while enjoying my pipe. We’ve put out the small fire but the odor is horrible. Do you have another room on this floor where Mr. Houdini could sleep until his suite has been cleaned and aired out?”

 

“Certainly, Dr. Doyle. We’ll send someone up with a key and escort him to a fresh room. We’ll have the suite cleaned and aired out by morning,” he assured.

 

“Thank you. Please bill the cost of the chair to me. I do apologize for causing the damage.”

 

“Thank you, Dr. Doyle. We are happy to be of service.”

 

Arthur hung up the phone and smiled at Harry.

 

“You’re crazier than I thought you were,” he said, laughing.

 

“Well, it was effective, wasn’t it? They’re sending someone up to move you into a new room for the night.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“Do you...think you could stay a while?”

 

“I’d like that,” Arthur replied, smiling at Harry, who looked considerably less miserable than he had moments earlier. He moved closer, gently resting his hands on Harry's shoulders, mindful of the finger-sized bruises there. "It will be all right."

 

"I almost believe that."

 

"We should put a few of your things in a bag to take to the other room."

 

"I can do that," Harry said with a small smile.

 

"You should rest until we know the bleeding has stopped," he said softly, hating to bring it up and yet feeling compelled to do his duty as a doctor.

 

"It'll only take me a minute to get my stuff, Doc. I'll be okay," he said, reaching up to touch Arthur's hand where it rested on his shoulder.

 

A bellman arrived a few minutes later and escorted them to a much smaller but still luxurious room a few doors down the hall from Harry's suite.

 

"The manager said to assure you we will have your suite cleaned and ready for you shortly after breakfast time, Mr. Houdini," the young man said. Arthur was surprised that Harry had thought to stick a few bills in the pocket of his robe, because he produced a nice tip for the bellman before sending him on his way.

 

"All right, into bed with you," Arthur said, turning back the bed.

 

"Thanks for getting me out of there." Harry took off his robe and sat on the side of the bed.

 

"Harry," Arthur said, crouching in front of him and resting his hands on Harry's knees, "I give you my word, it will be all right."

 

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then stifled a little choking sound, trying hard to control his emotions. Arthur sat on the bed next to him and pulled him close, holding him as he felt Harry's body shake in his arms, his emotions finally letting loose.

 

"I hate that suite," he muttered against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur closed his eyes at the raw, honest pain in those simple words. His mother's death, his victimization at the hands of Herbert Stafford...no wonder he hated that place.

 

"It must feel like your own personal hell there," Arthur whispered, his lips against Harry's curls. Harry's arms tightened around him at those words. "We're going to move you to another hotel, register you under another name, hire security. You'll be safe, I promise. You can maintain the Royal Suite for now as if you're staying here. It'll throw him off, buy us some time."

 

"Stay with me tonight."

 

"I will. You don't have to handle this alone anymore, Harry. You need rest," he said gently. "Come on, lie down," he urged, standing and waiting as Harry stretched out in the bed, covering him. He kept an eye on Arthur, as if he didn't trust that he'd stay. "I'm a little overdressed," Arthur quipped, and Harry actually grinned a little at that.

 

He undressed down to his underwear, laying the clothing neatly over a chair. It struck him then the awful irony of the situation. He was sharing a bed with Harry after revealing his feelings, but it was because Harry had been assaulted by a man he'd become entangled with in the first place because Harry was harboring similar unexpressed feelings for Arthur. He got into the empty side of the bed, not sure exactly what Harry wanted from him in terms of physical closeness. Harry settled the confusion when he turned on his side, facing Arthur, and reached toward him a little hesitantly, as if he wasn't quite sure himself how much contact would be welcome with Arthur.

 

Arthur pulled him close, closing his eyes at how good the warmth of his body felt, even through the layers of nightclothes between them. He loved Harry, and had for a long time. It had been so long since he'd shared a bed with someone he loved...he'd been so lonely for so long. He fought a new wave of anger that bubbled up at the thought of what Stafford had done to Harry. Anger at himself for not tolerating the chaos of the backstage activity to be by Harry's side when that predator was coercing him into another horrible encounter.

 

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, his voice sounding a bit rough as if he'd been dozing off.

 

"Nothing, darling, go back to sleep," he said gently, the endearment slipping out easily, naturally, as he planted a little kiss on Harry's forehead.

 

"It's not your fault, either," Harry whispered.

 

"I should have stayed, after the performance. It was selfish of me."

 

"You didn't know."

 

"I know you asked me to be there. I promise you, I will always be here when you ask me, from now on."

 

"Good," Harry replied, tightening his arm around Arthur. "Then just stay with me forever and that way I don't have to keep asking you." Something in that impish tone made Arthur smile. He kissed Harry's bruised cheek.

 

"And I will never raise a hand to you."

 

"I know. Besides, you've seen my moves. I could lay you out in a couple of blows."

 

"Oh, is that so?" he teased, smiling, encouraging the little bit of humor.

 

"I'm a tightly coiled spring of physical agility," he replied.

 

"I'm well aware of your legendary physical prowess." He rubbed Harry's shoulder gently. "Incidentally, that was quite an impressive feat tonight. At least three women in the audience fainted."

 

"Eight. You didn't see the ones behind you by a few rows, and the dowager who almost fell over the balcony railing," he added, snorting. "She was a large lady and her husband was nearly unable to catch her."

 

"That slip nearly had me fainting," he admitted, and Harry was quiet a moment. "That was quite the dash of added excitement."

 

"For me, too," he admitted quietly.

 

"Wait...you didn't plan that?"

 

"I saw him in the audience." His breathing hitched. "I knew why he was there. What was coming."

 

"But you thought I'd be backstage."

 

"I was going to make sure you stayed there...left with me, so he couldn't approach me...for _that._ I didn't know how to tell you or if you'd have anything to do with me once you knew, but I thought maybe...you could still...that you wouldn't hate me."

 

"I can't change what has already happened, but I won't desert you again."

 

"You liked the Deadly Pit of Fire, huh?" Harry asked, a little humor in his voice. Arthur took a gentle hold of the hand that rested on his chest.

 

"Like might not be the right word, but it was impressive. Of course, now that I know you didn't plan that slip, I forbid you to ever do it again," he said, but he let enough humor into his voice to make Harry laugh. He truly would have been happy if Harry would abandon things that dangerous, but he also knew that was a futile hope.

 

"Oh, really? You're in charge here now?"

 

"Of course, I am."

 

"Boy, have you got a lot to learn," he replied, hugging Arthur close, nuzzling him.

 

"I look forward to that," he said, kissing Harry's hand.

 

********


	2. Chapter 2

They had shifted around a bit in their sleep, but when Harry opened his eyes, he still felt warm, safe, and protected. Doyle's longer body was curled protectively around him, spooned behind him. His back ached and he felt raw and sore, but that's how he always felt after Stafford got done poking him and mauling him. He knew Doyle was somewhat puzzled that he'd been so easily controlled by Stafford. Maybe Doyle wouldn't see preserving his career as a reason to endure that. But it was more than that. Now that his mother was gone, all he had were the crowds of people who filled theaters in Europe and the States, worshiping him from afar for the thrills he could provide them. He'd never imagined Doyle would want him the way he obviously did.

 

If only he'd known that just a day sooner...

 

He moved to stretch his legs a bit and groaned. Stafford had really gone to town on him, worse than usual, and it really hurt. Even with his high pain tolerance and his acceptance that it was a warped and unjust price he paid not to have his life destroyed.

 

"Will you let me check to see if you're still bleeding this morning?" Doyle asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper.

 

"I guess so," Harry conceded, miserable at the thought but not really feeling up to taking care of himself like he usually did. Arthur was quick, gentle and methodical, obviously using some kind of handkerchief to see if there was any blood.

 

"It's not much, but you're still bleeding a bit. You need to stay off your feet today. That's not a suggestion."

 

"I've got a matinee at two."

 

"No, you don't. I mean it, Harry. Do you really feel well enough to put on a show today?"

 

"Not like I haven't put one on before when I was under the weather. I'll be fine."

 

"Take a day and let yourself heal. If that vile bastard managed to injure you seriously this time, you aren't in any condition to be suspended upside down from a rope just now."

 

"I don't feel so great," he admitted. "You better get going. I'll just stay in bed. I'll be okay. Maybe you can get a message to Florrie for me, about cancelling the matinee."

 

"If I leave, you'll rest a while and then put on your show anyway. You won't take care of yourself and you'll end up in the hospital."

 

"I'm not helpless." _But please don't leave me because I really need you now._

"I'll order you a large breakfast, which I want you to eat in bed, get some protein and vitamin C in you. While you're doing that, I'm going to go home and change, and I'll be back before lunchtime so don't get any ideas about slipping out to the theater."

 

"I need to use the bathroom," he said, trying to sit up. "Damn it."

 

"Just a minute," Arthur said, getting up and walking around to Harry's side of the bed. "Easy, now, it's going to hurt when you sit up."

 

"Thanks for the tip, Doc."

 

"Squeeze my hand," he said, ignoring Harry's snippy retort. In a couple of gentle moves, he got him sitting and then standing and on their way to the bathroom. "Do you feel steady on your feet?"

 

"Steady enough."

 

"I'll respect your privacy, but leave the door open in case you feel faint," he replied.

 

"Okay," Harry agreed, figuring it was smart for Arthur to be able to reach him if he did lose his balance or pass out. He doubted that was going to happen, but then he also hadn't expected to feel so lousy when he did get up.

 

He finished in the bathroom, washed his hands and exited the bathroom in time to hear Arthur ordering breakfast for him.

 

"Is there any likelihood of Stafford paying a return visit so soon?" Arthur asked after he'd hung up.

 

"No, I probably won't hear from him for a few weeks." Harry got back in bed, relieved to be off his feet and not sitting as he eased himself back on the pillows.

 

"I told the front desk you were resting and not to be disturbed, and that your room change was not to be disclosed to avoid any harassment from eager fans."

 

"Guess you've got everything all set, Sherlock," he said, smiling.

 

"I won't be long," he said, dressing quickly. "Room service will let themselves in to serve you, so stay where you are."

 

"You don't have to come back. I'll be okay."

 

"Nonsense," Arthur replied simply, leaning over and kissing Harry's forehead. "Don't argue with your doctor."

 

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, smiling. Arthur smiled back before he left, closing the door behind him.

********

 

Arthur was familiar with Herbert Stafford. He was a widower, his wife having died in childbirth several years earlier. The child had not survived, either. Arthur had always thought that a tragic story, but knowing what a degenerate the man was now, perhaps it was a blessing that he hadn't brought any children into the world. The fact Arthur had briefly considered the Stafford School for Kingsley made his blood run cold in his veins. If Stafford had touched his child, he knew he would have killed the man without a moment's hesitation or a fleeting interference of conscience. As it was, the way he'd violated and injured Harry, not once, but multiple times, made him see red in a way he knew wasn't conducive to strategic planning and carefully plotted retribution.

 

He had to make the conscious decision to go home instead of driving to Stafford's house, barging inside, and beating the man to a bloody pulp.

 

He didn't linger long at the house. He bathed quickly, changed his clothes, shaved and gathered up a few things to take back to the hotel with him, including his medical bag. He didn't think Harry was severely injured, but he wanted to have some basic supplies handy if he needed them. He actually thought it might be good for Harry to use his opium in this case to relax him and ease the pain a bit.

 

He found himself wondering how many lovers Harry had in his life, and then he reminded himself that a pig like Stafford didn't qualify as a lover. He didn't qualify as a human being. He didn't know how he'd begin to handle having a male lover...Harry was a handful even as a friend. What his life would be like romancing him was both exciting and slightly terrifying.

 

How did you romance a man anyway? Good Lord, what on Earth did you do to romance one like Houdini? Doyle couldn't even begin to envision the type of grand gesture one would have to come up with to sweep such a man off his feet, or to even impress him. He lived in the lap of luxury, had every material thing his heart desired, and that was just the aspect of his life that Doyle witnessed here in London. Flowers and bonbons were definitely not suited to that task.

 

_So because he has everything, you give him nothing? Use that as an excuse not to treat him like a lover? Now, when he feels the most sullied and unworthy, as wrong-headed as that might be...you come along and don't treat him as you would someone worthy of your attentions who had stolen your heart?_

Annoyed with the voice in his head, but realizing it wasn't entirely wrong, Arthur set out on what he considered a nearly impossible assignment: choosing a gift for Harry Houdini, the flashy dresser who could afford any article of clothing or trinket his heart desired, and from the looks of his hotel suite and wardrobe, did just that.

 

Still, Harry had been through something awful, and while a present wasn't going to undo that, it might cheer him up a bit. He wondered how long it had been since someone surprised him with a gift. Probably since long before his mother died, since she was the likely person who would think to do that, even if she was essentially buying him gifts with his own money. Harry would never think of it that way or care. He'd just be excited like a child to get a gift from his mother because from her it would come with love. Arthur hoped maybe he'd feel similarly about a gift from him, even if it wasn't up to his usual standards of fashion or he didn't truly need it.

 

He stopped at an exclusive men's clothing store where he'd bought several of his own suits and accessories. The clerk there knew him by name and greeted him warmly.

 

"How can we be of service today, Dr. Doyle?" he asked, smiling. An aging man with white hair and spectacles, he was dressed in one of their own fine dark suits, accented with a burgundy waistcoat and paisley silk tie. He wondered if this was what an elderly Houdini might actually select for himself.

 

"I need a gift for a gentleman," he said. "He's very stylish. Perhaps even a bit loud," he added.

 

"Ah, something suitable for Mr. Houdini?" the man asked.

 

"How did you know that?" he asked, too stunned to be annoyed by the man's intrusion into his business.

 

"I've followed the news on some of your more notable cases with Scotland Yard, and your description so perfectly suited Mr. Houdini...I thought if I knew for sure it was for him, I could make more effective recommendations."

 

"Well, you certainly have excellent powers of deduction," he conceded. "Sherlock Holmes would be impressed," he added, and the other man smiled.

 

"I think I may have just the thing. Winter is coming, and a gentleman like Mr. Houdini will not wear an ordinary scarf, I’m sure, but rather something to add a bit of color to his overcoat."

 

"I daresay that's true," Arthur agreed, smiling. When the man led him to their selection of scarves, he saw it immediately. It was something he would never dream of wearing, a vibrant paisley silk with tones of dark blue, red, and gold. But what caught his eye was the unthinkable, brash, gaudy red fringe on the ends of it. "That one," he said, reaching out to touch it.

 

"Ah, may I say, sir, an excellent choice. I think you've chosen something that may even challenge Mr. Houdini's conventions," he said.

 

"I'm not sure that's possible, but thank you, yes, I'll take that one."

 

********

 

Harry did his best to eat breakfast, but after a few bites, it had turned his stomach. He'd set the tray aside and curled up in the bed. He felt lousy, and he missed his mother. He just wanted her to be there to fuss over him and reassure him everything would be all right. It was rare that anything impacted him enough to cancel a show and actually stay in bed, as if he could hide there from the world.

 

It wasn't the world he wanted to hide from. It was one particular monster, it was himself and his own shame over what he'd allowed himself to be forced to do, and it was the fear that Arthur would suddenly find it all too disgusting.

 

He froze and stiffened when he heard the door open until he saw it was Doyle, carrying his medical bag and another small, dark bag that almost looked like a piece of luggage. He must have looked panicked, because Arthur's expression immediately softened.

 

"It's all right, Harry. It is only I," he said, smiling, locking the door behind him. "I see you're still resting. That's good. Finally following doctor's orders."

 

"I guess I was more tired than I thought," he said, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. Arthur hastened to help him arrange pillows to prop him up. He looked at the almost full breakfast tray.

 

"Almost following doctor's orders," he teased. Then he became more serious. "Do you feel too ill to eat?"

 

"Just don't have much appetite, I guess."

 

"We'll have to keep a careful eye on you for infection," he said, feeling Harry's forehead. "You don't feel feverish," he said, sitting on the side of the bed.

 

"What's all that?" he asked, puzzled by the two bags. He recognized Doyle's medical bag, but the other bag made him curious.

 

"I brought my medical bag, and also a few things since I plan to spend as much time with you here as I can until we resolve this situation. And, I brought one other item." He went to the travel bag and pulled out the flat black box with its tasteful gold silk ribbon. He handed it to Harry.

 

"For me?" he asked, stunned to be given a gift just out of nowhere, for no reason. "Why?"

 

"Well, I didn't think you'd care for flowers, and I've never seen you eat bonbons, so..."

 

Harry chuckled at that, untying the ribbon on the box. He lifted the lid and moved the tissue aside. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was a gorgeous silk scarf, like nothing he already had. As he pulled it out of the box, he let the red fringe brush over his fingers.

 

"I love it," he said, cradling the scarf in his hands like it was fragile and precious.

 

"I was trying to find something unlike what you already have. If you don't like it, I'll understand."

 

"I said I loved it," Harry said, smiling, putting it around his neck. "It's perfect. I have a dark blue winter coat and this will look great with it."

 

"It does suit you," Arthur replied, smiling back at him. "But then I think almost anything would," he added, touching Harry's cheek. Harry felt his control falter at that, and he put his arms around Arthur's neck and held on.

 

"Thank you," he whispered.

 

"You're welcome, love," Arthur replied, patting his back lightly. "It's over, Harry. No matter what else happens, he'll never touch you again. I swear on my life, I'll kill him myself before I allow that to ever happen to you again."

 

Harry closed his eyes and held on, letting those words sink in. He didn't want to bring ruin and disaster into Arthur's life, but he couldn't face the situation alone anymore. And in spite of what he'd been through and what he'd been forced to do, Arthur still thought he was worthy of a gift, of being treated like you'd treat a respectable person you were courting. More than that, for the first time in months, he felt safe.

 

“I tried to find the picture, but I couldn’t,” he said, releasing his grip on Arthur and leaning back on the pillows. “I don’t want you to think I just...lay there and took it.”

 

“I never thought that,” Arthur replied, taking Harry’s hand and holding onto it. “I know you were in a...serious dilemma.”

 

“It’s not in the safe at his house. I got in there, cracked the safe, went through everything.”

 

“Was there anything else of interest there?”

 

“In the safe? No, not really. There was cash, some jewelry...looked like it was probably his dead wife’s expensive stuff. A couple ledgers, some stocks--”

 

“What was in the ledgers?”

 

“Looked like financial records. I mainly just flipped through them to see if he’d tucked the picture in there.”

 

“But you didn’t read any of the contents?”

 

“Uh, Doc, I was in somebody’s house, with their safe open, while they were upstairs sleeping. No, I didn’t read the ledgers. I didn’t plan on him even knowing I’d been there, but he figured out someone had been in the safe. I guess I didn’t put everything back just right. That was the first time he really got...violent. He probably thought he needed to put me back in my place for trying to outwit him.”

 

“Eviscerating him and leaving him as carrion is sounding better by the moment.”

“We need the photograph back first. Hey, remind me to never make a doctor really angry.”

 

“It isn’t wise,” Arthur replied, but he managed a little smile, though it was clear he was truly enraged by what Stafford had done. “He probably figured blackmailing the Great Houdini was going to mean his safe would be cracked almost immediately.”

 

“He probably set a trap, had something positioned so he’d know. Or he heard me and just let me dig around in there because he knew I wasn’t going to find it.”

 

“The safe would be the last place to hide something truly valuable from someone with your talents. What about his office at the Stafford School?”

 

“They have a night watchman, and he’s actually pretty diligent. I watched the place a couple nights, but it was too risky. Besides, I don’t know how I’d ever explain breaking into a boys’ school in the middle of the night, especially if he released the picture after I got caught. They’d probably think I was a pervert trying to get to the kids or something.”

 

“Not a worthwhile risk to take,” Arthur agreed. “It does seem unlikely he’d chance keeping something like that on school grounds, in any event.” Arthur looked troubled.

 

“What?” Harry asked, as Arthur reached out and touched Harry’s chin, slowly turning his head to the side to check the bite marks.

 

“Has he done this before?”

 

“The biting thing? A couple times,” he admitted, though he wished Arthur wouldn’t press him for details. “He got careless hitting me in the face, biting me there. He usually doesn’t mark me where it’s going to show,” he said, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I’m not shirtless for the fire pit trick, so he didn’t have to be as careful.”

 

“I’m not trying to humiliate you, darling. I’m sorry,” Arthur said, taking his hand again. “It only seems that if he has a...proclivity for this type of behavior, he may exercise it elsewhere. Horrible as this is, he’s only with you on rare occasions. I find it hard to believe such a swine can control himself for weeks, months even, without sating his vile desires.”

 

“Sometimes I can’t believe you still want to bring me presents and call me ‘darling’ when you know what I’ve...done with him. Why do you even want anything to do with me anymore?”

 

“Your sense of fashion. I find it irresistible.” Arthur smiled, and Harry stared at him a moment before he actually laughed, a reaction he didn’t think he could muster given how he felt. Still, he needed reassuring and Arthur was smart enough to know that. So he smiled and framed Harry’s face with his hands. “Because I love you, you idiot. Why else would I walk into a men’s shop where they actually know me and buy a scarf like that?”

 

Harry grasped Arthur’s wrists and pulled him closer so their foreheads touched, laughing at the little joke, but absorbing the meaning of those very significant words directed his way.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

“Do you think your mother would have approved of me?”

 

“She already did. She knew how I felt. She also knew you were married and as far as I knew, not interested in me that way.”

 

“Not a very effective cold reader anymore then, are you?” he needled. “Every time I looked at you, my pulse quickened and I always stared a bit too long.”

 

“I thought it was just that creepy intense way doctors look at people.”

 

“My God, you think doctors have a particular way of looking at people?”

 

“Like they’re always diagnosing you.”

 

“You thought I was diagnosing you? Harry, I was looking at you...inappropriately and you thought I was evaluating your health?”

 

“You thought my x-rays were a mess, so I figured you were wondering how it all held together and still worked.”

 

“Well, I have wondered that at times, but that wasn’t why I lingered over looking at you. Or...”

 

“Or what?”

 

“Smelling you.” Arthur turned a nice shade of red when he admitted that, and Harry didn’t have the heart to really tease him about it. It was probably the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to him. “Whenever you’re near me, I...make an effort to...”

 

“Smell me,” Harry completed.

 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, holding up his hand. “It was forward of me and...very...”

 

“You like how I smell?”

 

“Clearly I do or I wouldn’t be making the effort,” he replied, sounding irritated now. “Just forget I said that. Please, forget it,” Arthur repeated, covering his face with one hand.

 

“Forget the sexiest thing anybody ever said to me? I don’t think so. All these years of spending out on fancy cologne finally paid off.”

 

“You wear one that has strong notes of vetiver. And another that has a hint of lavender, but it’s mixed with something else I don’t recognize.”

 

“This Indian girl I met a couple years ago - from India, not American Indian - told me that vetiver was supposed to relax you and have calming properties. I think there were times my mother wanted to stick my head in a bucket of the stuff and see if it would really work. I settled for having a cologne mixed with it instead.”

 

“You told your mother what an Indian woman you were...consorting with advised you on cologne ingredients?”

 

“Yes...why wouldn’t I?”

 

“If I told _my_ mother something like that, I believe it would have given her a stroke on the spot.”

 

“I told Ma pretty much everything.” He paused, angry that the memory was making him emotional. He didn’t talk much about his mother, or her death, and this was why. It was a wound so huge and gaping that it never seemed to heal.

 

“How you must still miss her,” Arthur said gently, looking into Harry’s eyes.

 

“It never gets better,” he admitted, swallowing. Arthur took off his jacket and toed off his shoes, then sat against the pillows with Harry, there on the bed, and gathered him in his arms. He wasn’t exactly crying, but he was in pain and uncertain about the future and it had been so long since he’d had someone to trust and lean on.

 

“How is your pain? Any better?”

 

“It’ll be okay.”

 

“That means no,” Arthur replied, kissing Harry’s temple.

 

“It took him a long time to...finish. It just kept going on. I thought it was never going to be over.”

 

“Is that typical for him?”

 

“He’s not very...stiff. Sometimes he loses it and has to start over when he gets it up again. It really hurts when he’s doing that. It took him three tries last night,” he admitted quietly. “He gets angry when it happens, that’s why I was so bruised on my arms because he kept pushing me down. Maybe he’s trying to convince himself it’s my fault he’s not able to do it so he takes it out on me when he can’t. I wasn’t trying to get away. I know I have to take it...”

 

“Not anymore,” Arthur said, stroking his hair soothingly. “Your back must hurt.” He moved his hand lower, rubbing Harry’s back firmly enough to relieve some of the pain. Just the attention and the love directed his way was more effective than any massage.

 

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re here, like this. I thought you’d hate me and be disgusted with me if you knew how I felt about you. If that photograph got out.”

 

“I could never hate you, Harry. Least of all for that. The only thing I hate is to think that figured into your decision to tolerate that bastard’s abuse.”

 

“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

 

********

 

Arthur ordered more food from room service and managed to get most of lunch down Harry before shocking him with the suggestion he use a bit of opium and then take a nap. It wasn’t that Arthur was overly judgmental of Harry’s use of the drug, because he knew better than anyone what level of pain Harry was managing with it, but it was an atypical treatment for a doctor to encourage. Still, it helped relax Harry and ease his pain, and he wanted him to rest a bit more before getting up and around again. Arthur was relieved to see the bleeding had stopped, and Harry wasn’t showing any signs of being feverish or ill, which could signal infection.

 

By late that afternoon, Harry decided he was moving back into his own suite, which was cleaned and aired out, with the destroyed chair replaced. He agreed to hiring security, but decided against moving to another hotel. Arthur could see some of his usual stubbornness and fight coming back, and he wasn’t inclined to be driven out of his lodgings by the likes of Stafford. It made sense for a celebrity of Houdini’s stature to have security at his hotel, but he seemed amused when the security guards Arthur hired actually arrived. With them stationed outside the room, Harry closed the door and gave Arthur one of his trademark wide smiles.

 

“Could you have found a couple bigger ones? Those two can still walk through the door without ducking,” he joked. He was dressed now, in pants, a shirt, and suspenders. He hadn’t bothered with anything more formal than that since he didn’t plan to go out. Still, he looked much healthier and Arthur was enjoying the fact he’d thrown on a dash of that vetiver scent for his benefit. Thanks to Stafford’s brutality, he knew it would likely be a long time before Harry was receptive to any intimate expression of their budding relationship, but he was more than receptive to physical affection and proximity. For now, that was perfectly fine with Arthur. He didn’t really have the slightest idea how to please a man, anyway. He just knew he wanted to please this one, someday, somehow.

 

Harry spent most of his time seated on the settee, and Arthur wasn’t sure if that was a subconscious way of being closer to his mother, since that was her seat of choice and the place where he’d found her, or if it was simply a more comfortable seat given his injuries. Arthur was seated there now, waiting for him to return.

 

“Well, it wouldn’t do us much good to hire the runts of the litter, now would it?” he replied.

 

“I suppose not,” Harry agreed, smiling, taking a drink of the cocktail they were sharing before ordering dinner.

“How well can you trust the ladies at the, uh, establishment where you made me meet you...”

 

“The hookers at the brothel?” Harry asked, cutting through Arthur’s deportment. “It’s a cash business, Doc. Whoever’s got the most cash can trust them the most. One thing I usually have plenty of is cash.”

 

“Is Stafford only interested in men, or do you think he might branch out?”

 

“He did have a wife, but that’s often just a cover for men who don’t want to get caught. Like you said, he’s a pig so who knows? He’d probably do it with farm animals given half the chance.”

 

“There’s a lovely mental image. I was thinking perhaps we could speak with some of those ladies again, see if any of them have had encounters with Stafford.”

 

“So what if they have? He’s not married anymore.”

 

“He runs a prestigious school for young boys. A man who engages in deviant sexual behavior with prostitutes will not likely be a successful headmaster for long.”

 

“Ooh, I like it,” Harry said, rubbing his hands together. “We one-up him in the filth department.”

 

“Well, I’d like to think of it in less crass terms, but yes, essentially, that’s it. Although I do admit to preferring a plan that would allow me to castrate him first.”

 

“Wow. So far you’ve gutted him and left him for the buzzards, and now you’re castrating him?”

 

“We could simply hang him from a tree, coat his privates with honey, and let the bees sort things out.”

 

“Where do you get this stuff?” Harry asked, laughing.

 

“I’m an author _and_ a doctor. I can think of a number of appalling ways to kill someone and have the technical knowledge to carry it out. In the absence of that, we should be able to set a trap for him.”

 

“We can go see the girls. They liked you. Refined, elegant English gentleman,” Harry teased.

 

“I was married then and I’m otherwise involved now, so their loss,” he quipped.

 

“Well, you did tell them you were looking for a gentleman,” Harry recalled, chuckling.

 

“So you were listening to my struggle to locate you and just amusing yourself with it?”

 

“A little. I don’t know for sure if there are male prostitutes there, but I’m sure those girls would know of where we could find one.”

“I suppose it would be even better to set him up using a male,” Arthur said.

 

“There’s one other obvious way we could do it.”

 

“Absolutely not. I won’t allow that.”

 

“It’s not like you’d let him hurt me. We just need him to be in the same position with a man that he got me into with that photograph. Just make sure _my_ face isn’t in the picture this time. It’s typically not my face he’s interested in, so that shouldn’t be hard.”

 

“If you think for one moment I would allow that filthy swine to be in the same room with you again, let alone see you undressed or lay a hand on you, you are sadly mistaken,” Arthur bellowed. He knew his face must be tinged red with anger and his eyes wide.

 

Harry bridged the distance between them on the settee and kissed him. Right on the mouth, holding his face in place with both hands, his tongue demanding entry until Arthur turned his rage into passion and returned the kiss, pulling Harry close against him. When they parted, Harry

smiled at him, but it wasn’t a cocky smile. Arthur couldn’t remember seeing so much love directed his way in a long time. So he took Harry’s hand in his and kissed it.

 

“I will defend your honor with the last breath in my body. I’m sorry if that cramps your independence, but--”

 

“A little, but I can live with it,” he said, leaning in for another kiss. “Just takes a while to get used to it. But I like it,” he added softly.

 

********


	3. Chapter 3

Harry made the excuse that his back was tired to get into bed early. The truth was his ass hurt from sitting on the furniture, but that was a little more embarrassing than he was prepared to admit. Although kidding himself that Arthur, being a doctor, didn’t know exactly what was wrong with him was a bit absurd. He was grateful that Arthur had made excuses at home that Harry was helping him with some research for a new story, and he would most likely just stay at the Metropole since they would be working late into the night.

 

They actually did work part of the time, Arthur taking copious notes on every detail Harry could remember about Stafford’s life, schedule, activities, and interests. He felt their best strategy was to retrieve the photograph, if possible, through surreptitious means and not confront Stafford directly until they had it in their possession. In the absence of that, they needed something equally ruinous to hold over his head to get it back. Harry noticed that all scenarios Arthur was considering involved some form of confrontation, and he couldn’t help but feel Arthur was somewhat savoring that idea.

 

_Gee, maybe it was the carrion comment. Or the castration suggestion. Or the bee thing._

Harry smiled as he watched Arthur settle into the other side of the large bed. And settle, he did. Clad in his nightshirt and longjohns, he sat propped in the bed, book in hand to read a bit before sleep. Not one to lie silently by while his lover's attention was on something other than him, Harry stretched out on his side and leaned up on his elbow, propping his chin on his hand, staring at Arthur. Feeling eyes boring into the side of him, Arthur set his book aside and looked over at Harry with a smile.

 

"What do you do to relax yourself for sleep?" he asked.

 

"Well, usually, it's the wee hours of the morning and I just fall on the bed in whatever position I land and sleep until the room's too bright for me to sleep anymore. Or if I can't sleep, I use a little opium to relax and...go numb, I guess you'd say."

 

"I was about to suggest a good book, but I doubt that would fit into your itinerary."

 

"I read," he objected, annoyed at the superior tone in Arthur's voice. "So what's so interesting about that book that makes it more interesting than me?"

 

"I doubt any mere book could aspire to that," Arthur said, smiling fondly at him.

 

"What's it about? _The House behind the Cedars_ ," Harry read from the spine of the book. "Never heard of it."

 

"Few people have. Apparently it's not terribly popular, but it is rather interesting. It's a story about a brother and sister of mixed ancestry passing for white in the post-Civil War South."

 

"That actually sounds pretty interesting."

"I'm not that far in. I could start at the beginning," he offered, opening the book. "If you like."

 

"What made you pick that book anyway?" Harry asked, moving closer until he was settled against Arthur's side, arm linked through Arthur's arm, head on his shoulder.

 

"Someone very special to me suggested I might have a thing or two to learn about bigotry. I thought maybe this would enlighten me a bit." He laid the book down. "Or you could tell me a little bit more about your past, experiences you had growing up. That would be infinitely more interesting to me than a work of fiction."

 

"There's not a lot to tell. It just feels like I've spent my whole life hiding who I am because someone would judge me for that...or hate me for it...and anything else about me wouldn't matter. Not my talent, not who I actually am. Stafford was able to make me...do things...all because I couldn't chance somebody knowing the truth about me. If you keep up this relationship with me, you're going to learn about it firsthand. It's why we have to come up with excuses to be together, why we have to hide."

 

"It's worth whatever it takes, Harry."

 

"Why don't you read to me for a while? Maybe you'll get me hooked on reading in bed, who knows?"

 

"Someday, you're going to tell me the story of Harry Houdini," he said, settling in to read.

 

"His story is pretty easy. I made him up."

 

"How about Ehrich Weiss? You think I'll ever get to hear his story?"

 

"Yeah, if you want. Another night."

 

"All right, but soon," Arthur said, leaning over and kissing the top of Harry's head. "Comfortable?" he asked.

 

"Very," Harry replied, closing his eyes and relaxing against Arthur's side. Arthur started reading the book from the beginning, but Harry didn't hear much of it before he dozed off to sleep.

 

********

 

"You know where this woman lives?" Doyle asked as he stopped his car at the curb. "Should I ask how you know that?"

 

"It's not what you think," Houdini replied as they got out of the car and walked down the alley to the apartment occupied by Sophie Pendleton, the prostitute who had served as Houdini's "informant" on the Spring Heel'd Jack case. He stopped in front of the door leading to a humble flat that was still a bit nicer than Doyle expected a prostitute to afford, not to mention it was in a neighborhood that was working class, but not necessarily populated with “working girls.” Houdini knocked and in a moment, it opened and a little girl of about five stood there, wearing a nice dress with ribbons in her long brown hair.

 

"Mummy! It's Mr. Harry!" she hollered. A moment later, Sophie appeared in the doorway, dressed in clothing far different from her evening wear, looking much like any other respectable young mother.

 

"This is a surprise," she said. "Mr. Doyle, the writer, isn't it?" she asked, looking at Doyle.

 

"Yes, nice to see you again, Sophie."

 

"Please, come in," she said, guiding the child back from the door, out of their way. Her apartment was about the same size as Adelaide's, though these walls were painted a bright blue with the doors painted white, and the small rooms were furnished a bit more attractively than one would expect. "Elsa, go play with your doll, love," she said, ushering the child into the bedroom.

 

"She's lovely," Arthur commented.

 

"Thank you. Light of my life, she is. What brings you two to my door today?" she asked.

 

"We need help, Sophie," Harry said. "I need your help."

 

"You have only to ask, given the circumstances. Sit down," she invited, and they took seats around her small dining table. "Would you like some tea?" They both declined the offer and Harry continued. Arthur remained curious about the arrangement Harry seemed to have with Sophie, but it was clear that she and her daughter were living on something more than a prostitute's income. “What happened to that pretty face?” she teased. “You look as if you’ve been in a bit of a row.”

 

“I guess you could call it that. Have you ever heard of a man named Herbert Stafford?" he asked.

 

"Not every gentleman I encounter uses his real name," she said. "I've never met anyone by that name."

 

"He kind of looks like Doyle, but that's where the resemblance ends."

 

"He's a vile, depraved man who enjoys preying on others," Doyle interjected.

 

"You'll have to be a bit more specific. I've met a lot of men who fit that description."

 

"He may...patronize either male or female companions," Harry said.

 

"That does narrow things a bit. I'll ask around, but I don't know anyone personally that comes to mind."

"There's one more thing," Harry said. "Where would we find a male...companion?"

 

"We don't need one personally," Arthur hastened to add. "It's for a...business proposition."

 

"If this man is anything like you describe him, you can probably find one by following him for a while."

 

"That's an excellent observation," Doyle said. "We plan to do that, but we would like to deal with this situation sooner than later."

 

"Well, you could try the bath houses."

 

"No, thank you. Marinating in a tub with a bunch of hairy old men isn't my thing," Harry said. "You don't have any men working in your establishment then?"

 

"One or two."

 

"Sophie, please, we need someone we can trust."

 

"I do owe you, so I suppose I can give you their names, but for obvious reasons, please be discreet."

 

"We understand," Arthur said.

 

"Yes, I can imagine you do," she said, pinning both of them with a knowing look. She wrote two names and addresses on a piece of paper and slid it toward Harry. "Ian is very handsome. If you have to lure this man into trouble, I haven't seen a gentleman of that persuasion yet who could resist him."

 

"He'll be our first choice then," Harry said. Elsa came back out then, carrying a doll that looked as if it cost more than most of the furniture in the small apartment. She headed right for Houdini.

 

"Mr. Harry, do a trick for me," she said, grinning at him. Doyle watched the scene unfold with great amusement.

 

"I don't know, Elsa...what kind of a trick should I do?" he queried, smiling back at her, doing a little sleight of hand motion and producing a lollipop seemingly from out of thin air though Doyle strongly suspected it came from up his sleeve. Elsa squealed with delight and took it.

 

"What do you say, Elsa?" Sophie prodded.

 

"Thank you, Mr. Harry," she said, hugging his neck as he leaned forward.

 

"You're welcome, princess," he said, smiling as she went back to the bedroom with her prize. "Thanks for the information," he added tucking the paper in his pocket. "She's doing great. No limp."

 

"The doctor says she's fully healed," Sophie replied, beaming.

 

"She was injured?" Doyle asked, wondering what had happened to the child. As a doctor, and a father, the injury of a child always concerned him, especially when that child might be living in a situation that was less than ideal.

 

"She was playing in the street by our old place and got in the way of a carriage. Broke her leg in two places. Mr. Houdini paid for her to see the doctor and have her leg set. Doctor said she'd have never walked right again otherwise."

 

"No big deal," Houdini dismissed, smiling. "Sophie's helped me out a few times, so I was just returning the favor."

 

"Well, she's a lovely child and I'm glad she recovered so fully," Doyle concluded, smiling at Houdini.

 

After they left Sophie’s place, Doyle began what he imagined Houdini had expected was an inevitable probe.

 

“I didn’t know you knew Sophie so well,” he said. Houdini smiled.

 

“I don’t know her well _that way._ I don’t frequent brothels as a rule.”

 

“How did you happen to learn about her daughter’s injury?”

 

Harry expelled a long breath. “Sophie gives a great massage and she doesn’t expect anything more from it. She keeps me company, works the knots out.”

 

“I thought Florrie was your...assistant,” Doyle said.

 

“She is, but I found it was better to limit that to on-stage. She was beginning to act like we were seeing each other. She’s a great stage assistant, but I didn’t want to have an affair with her. Anyway, one of Sophie’s customers beat her up pretty badly, and she couldn’t work for a while, so when she came to see me, she didn’t say anything at first but she was still pretty banged up and I could tell she was upset about something - beyond the obvious - so I asked her what was going on and she said she was losing her apartment and couldn’t pay the rent and her daughter had been in an accident that day and was home in bed with a neighbor watching her and she couldn’t take her to a doctor even though her leg was all messed up.”

 

“That’s horrible.”

 

“I thought so, too, and for me, you know, it was pocket change. That’s the amazing part. I’d drop more on a nice suit than it took to fix her daughter’s leg. When I saw the lousy place they were living, I told her I’d help her with rent but not in that dump. No kid should grow up in that kind of a place.”

 

“That doll looked rather expensive as well,” Arthur said, smiling.

 

“Little girls should have dolls.”

 

“It was very kind of you to help them out. Your mother would have been proud of you for that, I’m sure.”

 

“You think so? That’s nice to think about.”

 

“You’re a good man, Mr. Harry,” Arthur quipped, and Harry laughed.

 

“She couldn’t quite manage Houdini, so I told her to call me Harry, and she turned it into Mr. Harry.”

 

“I’ve been thinking. I could pay a visit to Stafford on the pretext that I was looking at his school for Kingsley. I could get a look inside his office, around the building and grounds.”

 

“You couldn’t get a good enough look to check for the photograph.”

 

“I couldn’t search his office. Unless there was a diversion.”

 

“I could create a diversion, but he knows me. I couldn’t risk being seen there. He’s seen you, too, so he’d probably suspect something if you suddenly showed up at his school. After all, he’s going to figure you saw me after...since he got careless and hit me where it showed,” he concluded, gesturing at his face.

 

“Yes, that’s true. Well, then our next option is to locate Ian and enlist his help. Have your cash handy.”

 

“I never do business with hookers without it,” he quipped. “You don’t have to be involved in this. It’s risky, even going to see this guy, taking on Stafford.”

 

“Stafford is an overgrown bully who sorely needs to be put in his place. Please don’t deny me the pleasure of doing so.”

 

“I don’t want you to get in the middle of something or be seen somewhere you shouldn’t be. If something goes wrong and Stafford makes good on his threat, just being seen with me could destroy your reputation.”

 

“I’m not abandoning you.”

 

“I didn’t think after my mother died that anybody would ever stand by me like that.”

“Life has a way of surprising us,” Arthur said, smiling, chancing a brief moment to squeeze Harry’s hand before returning his hand to the steering wheel.

 

Arthur pulled up in front of the Metropole. “I’ll be back to pick you up about eight so we can seek out our friend, Ian.”

 

“I’ll be ready.”

 

“Stay in your suite. I’ll come up for you.”

 

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Doc. I can take care of myself.”

 

“Harry...that’s why we have security for you.”

 

“That’s why _you_ hired security for me. Stafford doesn’t even know anything’s up yet. Besides, he never comes back this fast.”

 

“Humor me, darling.”

 

“Keep calling me darling and you can have whatever you want, handsome,” Harry said, grinning, getting out of the car with a little wince.

 

“Use the time between now and then to get some rest and stay off your feet for a while.”

 

“Yes, Dr. Doyle,” he replied, giving Arthur a quick backward look and a smile before disappearing into the hotel.

 

********

 

The security guards greeted Harry as he let himself into his suite.

 

"I suppose you think you're just going to walk off into the sunset with Dr. Doyle?"

 

Harry froze, not wanting to turn around to see who was behind him.

 

"How did you get in here?" He finally made himself turn around and face Stafford.

 

"You're not the only one who can flash his money around when the situation calls for it," he said, smiling smugly. "Apparently your new lover doesn't pay as well as you do. It wasn't very difficult to bribe your 'guards'," he said, giving Harry the predatory smile that made his blood run cold. Stafford was an ugly, twisted, sorry substitute for Arthur.

 

"I'm not doing this anymore, Stafford. Leave, now." Harry didn't feel that assertive, but he also was done being victimized by Stafford. If he had to fight him off physically, he could do it. And then some.

"Oh, really? You think your fancy author is going to want to share the scandal with you when that photograph is released?"

 

"Someone seeing that photograph is preferable to being pawed by you. You disgust me. You always have. You're nothing like Doyle. You never could be. All you are is a pathetic excuse for a man who has to blackmail someone into servicing you.”

 

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, haven’t you?” Stafford said, then leered at Harry. “But then I already knew that.”

 

“Get out, now.” Harry moved forward to force him out the door, but Stafford drew a pistol and aimed it at him.

 

“What are you gonna do, Stafford? Shoot me? You don’t think anyone in the hotel is going to hear that?”

 

“There are no other guests at this end of the hall and I paid the guards to let me in here. Who’s going to come to your rescue if I shoot you? Do you think your dandy author gentleman is going to burst in and disarm me?”

 

“No, but I might.”

 

“And if you were to shoot me dead, or get me arrested, do you think it would be your friend, the lady constable, who would be in charge of searching my home for incriminating evidence? Perhaps she’ll enjoy seeing you in all your naked glory. Her boss...what’s his name again? Merring. Yes, that’s it. He never has liked you much, has he? I’m sure a photograph of you taking it up the arse will be a highlight for him, too. And we’ll see how long your precious Doyle stands by you when you’re a moral pariah, if you aren’t jailed.”

 

The thought of what Stafford was outlining horrified him, and yet it seemed like a very realistic outcome. If he shot Stafford the guards would come running, the whole situation would blow up in his face before he and Doyle could get the drop on Stafford. If he killed Stafford, Scotland Yard would definitely investigate any story he might come up with to explain it, and that would include searching Stafford’s home and office. The picture had to be somewhere, and it would be found, and then he’d probably be arrested for murder and be lucky not to end up at the end of hangman’s rope.

 

“Get on your knees.”

 

“I won’t do that. You can’t make me do that anymore.”

 

“Oh, I can’t? You know that if you wound or kill me, your dirty little secret gets out. Now, you’re going to put that pretty mouth of yours to good use, and thank me for letting your ass heal up before I have that the next time, too.”

 

“Doyle’s coming back. He’s due here any minute.”

 

“Really? That must be quite the motor car he has, considering he just left. Unless he’s driving around the block, he won’t be back in time to interrupt us.”

 

“As long as it takes you to get it up, he could drive to Paris and back and potentially still interrupt us.”

 

“You foul-mouthed little bastard, get on your knees or I’ll shoot you in the kneecaps.”

 

Not sure if he should chance Stafford’s threat, since he seemed almost crazy enough to try it, Harry finally knelt. He felt his stomach flip at the sight of Stafford unzipping and exposing his limp penis and the sad-looking sac beneath it. And then the idea dawned on him. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but...

 

“If you do your job right, this will be quick and easy on you. If you don’t manage to do the job with your mouth, I’ll turn you around and finish in your tight little ass. I don’t care if you do bleed. Is that clear?”

 

“Go to hell,” Harry replied. He wasn’t entirely shocked that Stafford struck him with the pistol, but it hurt worse than he expected and left him a little dazed, braced on his hands as he lurched forward.

 

“What are you waiting for?” Stafford said, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling him up by it. “Remember, you try something, or I feel teeth, and I’ll blow your head off.”

 

Harry tried to close his mind and his senses to the sour awfulness that invaded his mouth. He had to focus on what he was doing to make this work. Then suddenly he simultaneously grabbed the wrist that held the gun, while with the other hand he grabbed and twisted Stafford’s balls as hard as he could, while biting down on the foul-tasting thing in his mouth.

 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard a cry of pain quite like what came out of Stafford’s mouth, but Stafford lost his grip on the gun and staggered backwards, holding his injured genitals, falling into a chair, moaning in pain. Harry picked up the gun.

 

“Cover up that pathetic little thing, or what’s left of it, and get out of my suite. If you ever come near me again, you’re going to wish I’d put a bullet in your head here and now,” he said, aiming the gun at him, spitting out a mixture of his own blood from the blow to his face and saliva, trying to get the taste of Stafford out of his mouth.

 

“You’ll pay for this,” he threatened, struggling to stand, staggering toward the door.

 

“You’re planning to go to the police and show them your saggy old thing and report how you got it bitten? Why don’t you go ahead and do that? Surely they won’t suspect you of having sex with men, just because one almost bit your dick off.”

“I will destroy you,” he gasped, staggering out the door and slamming it behind him.

 

Harry went into the bathroom and hung over the toilet bowl, vomiting into it. He stood and went to the medicine cabinet and gulped mouthwash, rinsing out his mouth repeatedly. He knew the taste was gone, but he couldn’t forget it or get the odor of Stafford out of his nostrils. He tried to console himself with the thought of just how much pain his assailant was in right now, definitely worse than the new, more colorful bruise that was forming on the side of his face that wasn’t bruised from the previous blow.

 

He scrubbed his hands vigorously with soap and hot water, and then subjected his face to a similar harsh scrubbing. When he was done, the skin was red and irritated and the bruises throbbed. He forced himself to stand straight, regain his composure, and walk purposefully out to the hall where the two security guards stood.

 

“Get out.”

 

“Excuse me, sir?” one of the asked. They were both hulking men about his age, standing there as if they were actually protecting him from anything.

 

“You heard me. I know you were paid off to let someone into my suite, so get out. Unless you want me to call hotel security and Scotland Yard to deal with you.”

 

“We didn’t let anyone in, Mr. Houdini,” one of them protested.

 

“Sure you didn’t. He scaled the side of the hotel and jumped in the window. Now get out!” he ordered, and the two men hurried away, mumbling apologies as they went.

 

He went back into the suite, closed the door, and wandered into the bedroom, falling on the bed and curling up there. It was only a bit after six. It would be almost two hours until Arthur got there. He knew he could send him a message, or call him, but he was probably spending some time with his kids, having dinner with them. There was nothing he could do if Stafford got angry and released the photograph right away. Nothing Arthur could do about it, either, that he couldn’t do in two hours. So he lay there and thought about his mother, how many times she made him feel better with her chicken soup and her fussing over him. He looked around at the opulence of the room and wondered how the Great Houdini could possibly be reduced to this, to being at the mercy of some degenerate pig that was probably out there plotting the end of his career.

 

********

 

Doyle parked his car in front of the Metropole and was relieved to see that Harry was not loitering around outside alone waiting for him. For once in his life, he had apparently decided to take Arthur’s advice and wait upstairs. Of course, when Houdini was wandering around the hotel lobby or near the entrance, he was likely to be recognized and end up signing autographs and meeting fans, so perhaps he wasn’t in the mood for that at the moment.

 

A cold dread settled over Arthur when he saw the security guards were absent from the hall in front of Houdini’s suite. He rushed to the door and knocked.

 

“Houdini!” he called out, knocking again. After a few moments, the door opened. Harry stood there, bloodshot eyes, another, angrier bruise on the right side of his face that looked worse than the original one on the left side, hair rumpled and clothing somewhat disheveled. “What happened? Are you all right?” he asked, entering the suite and closing the door behind him.

 

“I guess Stafford is the jealous type,” he said, trying for humor but missing by a mile.

 

“Sit down,” he said, guiding Harry to the settee, trying to ignore the rage that was flaring inside him. “Let me take a look,” he said gently, examining the bruised area that was somewhat swollen as well. It was the result of a much harder blow that the first bruise. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” Harry shook his head slightly.

 

“He is,” he said quietly.

 

“Ah, good man,” he said, smiling, touching Harry’s shoulder, but Harry didn’t seem to share the amusement. “Tell me what happened.”

 

“He bribed the guards to get in, so he was here when I got back. He started in with his threats about the photograph, he was upset I was...I guess he thinks we’re...”

 

“We are.”

 

“I know, but we’re trying not to be too obvious about it.” Harry sighed. “I refused to have anything to do with him so he pulled a gun on me. He made me...”

 

“Made you what, darling? Tell me,” Arthur said, almost whispering.

 

“Use my mouth on him,” he mumbled, but Arthur caught the hushed words. “So I bit him and twisted his sac and got the gun away from him. He staggered out of here moaning and holding his balls. I don’t know what he’ll do next. I fired the security guards, by the way.”

 

“I should have stayed with you.”

 

Harry put his arms around Arthur and held on. “I’m glad you’re here now. I’m sorry.”

 

“Why are you sorry?” Arthur asked, holding him close, trying to keep his mind on Harry instead of what he was going to do to Stafford when he caught up with him.

 

“I had to do it to get the gun away from him.”

 

“Harry...I would never blame you for that. Or anything else you had to do in this situation. But it ends tonight.”

“How?”

 

“We’re going to go take that photograph away from him,” he stated flatly.

 

“How?”

 

“The same way a schoolyard bully steals another child’s lunch. Go there and take it from him.”

 

“We don’t know where it is.”

 

“He does, and he’s going to hand it over.”

 

“Why would he do that?” Harry asked, moving away. “If it was this easy, don’t you think I would have done that?”

 

“You were trying to get the photograph by finding it and taking it without him knowing about it. Sometimes you have to change your approach to a situation if what you’re doing isn’t working. Instead, he’s going to give it to us.”

 

“He’s not going to give it to us unless we kill him and ransack his house. Trust me, I thought of that.”

 

“As appealing as that option is, it’s not the best strategy. We’d still be relying on our own searching skills to find something that may or may not be stored in any logical or surmisable place. We need him to produce it for us.”

 

“Why would he?”

 

Arthur stood up and, after pulling on his gloves, picked up the gun that lay on an end table. “For the same reason he stopped assaulting you tonight and left.”

 

“He did that because I twisted his balls and almost bit his penis off.”

 

“You got control of the situation. He’s had the control, Harry. Tonight, you got the upper hand and he crawled off like a wounded dog.”

 

“He’s kept me at his mercy for months. Do you seriously think I wouldn’t have confronted him before this if I could have?”

 

“You had too much to lose. Your career, your friends, possibly even your freedom depending on what he did with that photograph, especially if you confronted him. You won tonight because you had nothing to lose in your eyes that was worse than...servicing him. No matter what he did with that photograph, you were fighting for your life and your freedom from it, and when he walked out of here, you didn’t care if he exposed you or not - no matter if he did or not you were finished being controlled by him. He’s already lost the battle. Now it’s time to end the war.”

********


	4. Chapter 4

They parked Doyle’s motorcar about a block away from the Stafford home and made their way stealthily through alleys and gardens until they reached his house. The large home was mostly dark except for a single dim light in a downstairs room.

 

“You’re sure there are no live-in servants?” Doyle asked.

 

“I’m sure. The housekeeper fixes his dinner and then leaves for the night. He told me that once when he wanted me to come here for...the evening.”

 

“What room is that, with the light on?”

 

“His study. It’s where the safe is, but there’s a better way in back here.” Harry paused. “Are you sure about this? This is awfully risky for you.”

 

“This has to end, and I think confronting him now, when he’s alone, presumably in the place where he has the photograph hidden, is the best plan. I’m sure his reflexes are a bit dulled, too, thanks to his encounter with you earlier.”

 

“At least he won’t be sticking that smelly thing where it doesn’t belong for a while. Come on, this way,” Harry said, leading the way toward the entrance to the cellar. It was chained and padlocked, but Harry made short work of the lock and popped the padlock open, carefully undoing the chains.

 

They crept silently down the steps, Harry’s flashlight illuminating their path.

 

“The stairs lead up to the pantry, so we can go through the kitchen to the hall,” he whispered. “The study is across the hall from the stairs. You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do,” Harry said.

 

“Get the photograph back. He already knows you’re done taking his nonsense. Now it’s my turn to impress upon him that if he should ever decide to harass you again, he’ll be dealing with me as well.”

 

Harry hooked his hand behind Arthur’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

 

“As much as I enjoyed that, we should really keep moving,” Arthur said.

 

“You mean you don’t enjoy the irony of us kissing in his house, right before we go take his ammunition away?”

 

“Now that you mention it, that is rather exciting,” Arthur agreed. Harry grinned widely at that before leading the way up the stairs. Every creak sounded like it echoed through the house, but if Harry had made it all the way to the study without being detected, Arthur simply had to put his trust in him to lead the way successfully.

Once in the shadowy first floor hall, Harry turned off his flashlight and they followed along the wall as quietly as they could, approaching the dim gold light that spilled into the hallway from the study. Music was playing on a gramophone, and Stafford was sprawled in a chair in pajamas and a robe, sleeping. As Arthur moved into position in front of him, gun drawn, Harry turned off the music. Stafford came to with a start, then his eyes bugged as he found himself looking up the barrel of his own pistol held in Doyle’s gloved hand.

 

“Get up,” Doyle ordered, staring the man down, leveling the gun at the middle of his forehead.

 

“What is this? How dare you–”

 

“I said get up!” he bellowed, and he noticed Harry almost jumped at the outburst. “Or I’ll kill you where you sit,” he added through clenched teeth.

 

Stafford stood, albeit shakily. Given the discomfort he was probably still feeling and the nearly empty bottle of scotch on the table next to him, his condition wasn’t surprising.

 

“You have a photograph, and you’re going to give it to me.”

 

“Oh, I am? And why would I do that?”

 

“Because you don’t fancy a bullet between your eyes.”

 

“You’ll never get away with this,” he said. “Do you even know half of what he’s done?” he asked, gesturing toward Harry. “I’ve been with whores who were less accommodating.”

 

Doyle backhanded him with the gun, much the way he’d suspected Stafford had done to Harry to cause the vivid bruising and swelling on his face. The other man staggered, but didn’t fall.

 

“I’m only going to ask for this one more time. I want that photograph.”

 

“And I’m supposed to just hand it over because you asked for it?” he replied, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth on the back of his hand. “If you shoot me, you still won’t have the picture.”

 

“No, that’s true, but I imagine if I put a bullet in your head and burn your house to the ground, it will solve the problem. Honestly I find that to be a much more attractive plan. Get on your knees.”

 

“You’re insane!” he protested.

 

“On the contrary. I know exactly what I’m doing. This is your gun, with your fingerprints on it. If I shoot you in the head and burn down your house, assuming there’s enough left of your body for them to deduce that you were shot, the assumption will be suicide. You started the fire either to cover up your own suicide and then shot yourself, or you wanted to destroy something you didn’t want the authorities to find after your death. Because being the depraved, degenerate monster you are, I’m sure that photograph of Harry isn’t the only inappropriate item you have stashed in this house.”

 

“Fine. You’re welcome to the picture _and_ to him,” he said, casting a resentful look at Harry, who was trying not to enjoy the whole scenario too much. Of course, Doyle was about to see a naked photo of him having sex with Stafford, so that thought sobered him considerably.

 

“Where is it?” Harry demanded.

 

“I bet that’s been bothering you since you cracked my safe, you sticky-fingered little bastard.”

 

“If you insult him one more time, I won’t give you another opportunity to buy your life with that photograph,” Doyle said, leveling the gun more aggressively at the other man. “Answer his question, and then fetch that photograph.”

 

“It’s on the back of that painting,” he said, gesturing toward a painting of a fox hunt that hung over the fireplace in the study. “Inside the paper backing.”

 

“Then get it,” Doyle said, gesturing in that direction. “And it had better be the only copy.”

 

“It’s the only copy,” Stafford said, taking down the painting.

 

“I want the negative, too,” Harry spoke up. “Without that, there’s nothing to stop you from making another one, and I know you’d keep that here somewhere, too, so let’s not play games.”

 

“Awfully mouthy now that you have another lover on the hook, aren’t you?”

 

“Just get the photograph, _and_ the negative, and don’t give me another reason to be angry with you,” Doyle said.

 

Stafford glared at him and then set the painting on the floor and tore the paper on the back of it, exposing a large envelope. He held it out toward Doyle.

 

“Don’t give it to me, give it to Harry. It’s his. Now where is the negative?”

 

Harry took the envelope, looking at Doyle, surprised. 

 

“I don’t need to see it. Just verify it’s what he says it is.”

 

Harry nodded, choked up by the fact that Arthur was turning down the opportunity to even see the photograph, that he really was respecting what was left of Harry’s honor, which he felt was very little given what Stafford had forced him to do just a few hours earlier. He looked inside.

 

“That’s it,” he said.

“The negative,” Arthur prompted Stafford again, brandishing the pistol at him.

 

“It’s in the safe.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Harry objected. “Nice try.”

 

“I put it there after you tried to steal the photograph. Lightning rarely strikes in the same place twice.”

 

“Open the safe and get it,” Arthur said to Harry. “If he put the negative in there, he could have put a weapon in there, too.” Stafford looked crestfallen. “You can simply give him the combination or he can open it on his own. I assume you changed it after he broke into it the first time.”

 

“Fine,” Stafford relented as Harry moved the other picture off the wall that covered the safe and waited for the combination. Stafford recited the numbers, and within moments, the safe was open. Inside was not only the negative, but another pistol.

 

“Good call, Sherlock,” Harry said, grinning, taking the negative and tucking it in the envelope with the photograph. “You want the gun, too?” he asked Arthur.

 

“Just leave it in the safe and relock it. He won’t be able to access it fast enough to cause us any concerns.”

 

Harry nodded and closed and locked the safe again, hanging the painting back on the wall that covered it.

 

“You have what you came for. Now get out of my house!” Stafford shouted.

 

“Get on your knees,” Doyle said, advancing on him, keeping the gun aimed at him.

 

“What are you doing?” Houdini asked, eyes going wide.

 

“Do as I say!” Doyle bellowed at Stafford, who dropped to his knees, holding up his hands.  “How does it feel to be on your knees by force? At the mercy of someone else? That was not a rhetorical question. Answer me!” he demanded. His face was getting red and his hair had fallen on his forehead.

 

“What do you want from me? I gave you the photograph and the negative!”

 

“Now perhaps you can take back all the violent, demeaning, vile things you’ve done to Harry for your own perverse amusement!”

 

“He got his revenge for that already. I’m in excruciating pain!”

 

“I hope that what’s left of your filthy degenerate member rots, turns black, and falls off!” Doyle hissed. “I’m a doctor, and considering the type of injury, that just may happen.”

 

Stafford’s eyes widened still more.

 

“I believe I gave you an order,” Doyle said. “But I want you to ask him,” he gestured at Harry. “Beg him to spare your life.”

 

“He’ll kill me! I could see it in his eyes he wanted to when he had the chance!”

 

“But I didn’t, did I?” Houdini said, pausing, then looking at Doyle. “We got what we came for. It’s over.”

 

“Oh, no, it is _not_ over. Remember this, Stafford, if you ever come near him again, so much as look at him the wrong way should you pass him on the street, or make any future attempt to cause embarrassment or difficulty, I will come back and slice what’s left of your filthy pathetic little penis off, stuff it down your throat, and allow you to bleed out. Now, I believe you owe Harry an apology. A very heartfelt, sincere apology.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, still keeping his eyes on Doyle.

 

“Don’t tell me, tell him.”

 

“Don’t bother, Doc. I don’t want his apologies. I don’t want anything else from him. Ever. Just stay the hell away from me, Stafford, because if you ever touch me again, I’ll kill you myself.”

 

“I believe we’re done here then,” Doyle said, and they moved toward the doorway of the room. “It would be in your best interest to remember that both of us are rather well-connected at Scotland Yard. It would not be hard to find a reason to suggest a vigorous investigation of you and your school.”

 

“There’s been no impropriety with the school or any of my students! I am not a monster who preys on children!”

 

“You’re a monster, all right, Stafford. The only reason you don’t prey on children is because they don’t interest you,” Houdini said. “It certainly isn’t your fine moral character.”

 

“Just the hint of that sort of scandal would mean ruin, though, wouldn’t it?” Doyle smiled, but it was predatory and a bit evil. “Don’t give us reason to take further action again you.”

 

With that, they left the house, leaving Stafford on his knees in the middle of his study.

 

********

 

Harry unlocked the door to his suite and walked in, Arthur close behind him. He went to the fireplace and stoked the fire, holding the poker in one hand, the envelope with the photograph and negative in the other.

 

"Do you have to go home tonight?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady and neutral. If Arthur felt like he needed to maintain appearances, or go home for the children's sake, he had to be prepared to handle that. Their relationship was never going to be easy, and it could never be open. It was always going to be a secret. At the moment, that wore on him more than he could say.

 

"I told Vera we were still working on that research project and that I would be late, or possibly not home until tomorrow. I'm not leaving you alone tonight." He stood close behind Harry, hand on his shoulder. "That should make some nice kindling for the fire," he said gently.

 

Harry stared at the envelope. For so long, that photograph had ruled his life, and the fear of Arthur seeing it and hating him and shunning him for it was the real reason he'd endured anything Stafford had demanded from him. He could throw it in the fire and it would be gone. Deep down, he would always live in fear of a copy surfacing, of there being another picture, that Stafford would somehow pop back up like Spring Heel'd Jack jumping through the window at night to destroy his life. To make Arthur hate him and judge him and ban him from his life.

 

"You didn't look at it," he said.

 

"Because it would humiliate you, darling," he said, both hands on Harry's shoulders now, his body close behind him, just barely touching him. "Why would I do such a thing?"

 

"I thought...maybe it was too...sordid. If you saw me like this you'd never want anything else to do with me."

 

"Nothing is going to make that happen. You have my word."

 

"Would you look at it then?" he asked, bracing himself. "If you've seen it, it's like...it won't have any power over me anymore. And then I can throw it in the fire and it'll be over. I need to know you won't be disgusted or hate me."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"I...need you to do this for me."

 

"All right," Arthur said, his voice soft and gentle, but neutral. Harry turned and handed him the envelope. He couldn't quite meet his eyes when he did. Arthur opened the envelope and slid the photograph out. He looked troubled, sad, and then he looked at Harry. "Your eyes...I've never seen them so empty," he concluded.

 

"That's what you see when you look at that?"

 

"I see emptiness and pain in your expression. I don't see the fire and the passion and the life I usually see there. Even though he wasn't forcing you here, it's clear to anyone who cares to look closely that you're not enjoying this, you're enduring it. Because it's better than being alone." Arthur put the photograph back in the envelope. "I don't ever want to see that look in your eyes again. I know this isn't going to be easy, and the road is anything but smooth, but I will spend the rest of my life keeping that look out of your very beautiful eyes," he said, laying his hand on Harry's cheek so gently that it didn't even hurt the bruise there.

 

Harry wrapped his arms around Arthur and held on, clutching the fabric of his coat in handfuls, as if he had to hold him there so he didn't get away.

 

"It's all right, love. There's nothing left to fear. It's over."

 

Harry could feel Arthur's hand in his hair, his arms around him. He'd seen that picture and it hadn't driven him away. It didn't even matter. Arthur hadn't looked at it and seen him naked and engaged in a sex act. He'd looked at it through the eyes of love and seen Harry's pain, his loneliness, and the horrible emptiness of his encounters with Stafford, even before they turned violent.

 

"I've loved you for so long," he whispered against Arthur's shoulder.

 

"And I love you," he replied, and Harry could hear a tremor in his voice. "Are you ready?" He moved back a bit, holding up the envelope.

 

"Yeah, let's do this," Harry said, smiling. He took the envelope and tossed it in the fire. As he watched the corners turn black and curl up and the flames consume the photograph in its envelope, he leaned into Arthur, his arm around him, Arthur's arm going around his shoulders and holding him close.

           

"It's late. We should get some rest."

 

"I'm tired," he admitted, finding it strange to be so open with someone, to not always keep up a strong front.

 

"Come on, time to put this day behind us," Arthur said, steering him toward the bedroom.

 

Harry stripped down to his shorts, and he hesitated with his pajamas in his hands. Then he set them aside and got into bed in just his underwear. He wasn't prepared to do very much, between the lingering pain and what Stafford had just forced him to do earlier that evening, but he wanted to get closer to Arthur. He hoped maybe Arthur would want the same thing. He was glad to see that Arthur peeled off the extra layer of long underwear, and wasn't surprised he also had shorts on underneath it. Arthur got into bed next to him, and Harry made his move to get comfortable in Arthur's arms, snuggled against his chest, feeling the warmth of skin on skin contact.

 

"I don't want to waste time sleeping. I know we can't do this very often."

"We'll work it out somehow, figure out ways we can spend time together. It's not as if we don't already," Arthur said, running his hand up and down Harry's arm. "This won't be the only night we'll spend together. I promise."

 

"I wish it was every night."

 

"So do I, darling. It's not fair that it can't be."

 

"Another wasted night for you," Harry said with a sigh. He was still sore and the thought of having anything overpowering in his mouth, even from someone he loved...it was just too soon. Climbing all over Arthur in nothing but their shorts probably wasn't fair to him; getting him all riled up for nothing.

 

"How is a night with you wasted?" he asked, kissing Harry, deepening it enough to be passionate. His hands felt good on Harry's skin, caressing him, not pawing him, wanting to touch his shoulders and his back, his face, his hands, the parts of him someone who loved him would touch. All Stafford ever did was paw at him and stick his hands where they were uncomfortable and unwanted.

 

Harry ran his hand over Arthur's chest then, almost hesitantly. He wasn't used to participating much; he had no real desire to touch Stafford. Now he was with the man he wanted, with the man he loved who loved him. Arthur wanted to make him happy, make him feel good, not just use him for his own enjoyment.

 

"It's too soon for me to...do anything."

 

"You don't have to do anything," Arthur replied, kissing his cheek. "I'm not really prepared to 'do something' either. This is just fine for now. Harry, I'm a doctor. I know what you've been through, and I wouldn't touch you that way until I was sure you were healed."

 

"I'd understand if you changed your mind," Harry said, bracing himself for the response. "I know you're a loyal friend and a good person and you'd want to stand by what you said, but you didn't know about Stafford when you started...having feelings for me."

 

"I haven't changed my mind about anything. I just...I wish I had been there after the show. I could have stopped him."

 

"It would have just delayed him. I wouldn't have had the nerve to tell you about him. I thought if you knew...well, you know what I thought. I can't believe it's over."

 

"Relax and get some sleep, love. You don't have to worry about Stafford. Not his vile picture or him, ever again."

 

********

 

Arthur stirred and turned on his side, reaching for Harry, planning to curl around his warm body to go back to sleep. His arm encountered only an empty side of the bed. Concerned, he opened his eyes and looked around the room. Harry was nowhere to be seen. He got up, put on his robe, and walked out to the parlor. Harry was wearing his silk robe, sitting in front of the fire, staring into it. He approached the settee and sat next to him, saying nothing for a few minutes. Finally he just took Harry's hand and held it.

 

"You deserve to know the truth," Harry said, still staring into the fire.

 

"About what?"

 

"Me."

 

"What else is there you need to tell me?"

 

"Why I let Stafford...do what he did to me for so long. Why I couldn't stand the thought of anybody knowing what I was. Why I thought you'd turn on me, hate me..." Harry bit his lip and there were tears in his eyes.

 

"Tell me, darling. It's all right," he said gently, covering their joined hands with his other hand.

 

"When I was fifteen, I met a boy. His name was Antonio...Anthony, but they were Italians, so his mother and his grandmother called him Antonio, but he was always trying to Americanize it." Harry smiled. "Italian immigrants weren't a lot more popular than we were, but at least they weren't Jews," he added sadly. "He was tall, had lots of thick, dark hair," he added, reaching up and running his fingertips through Arthur's hair. "Like someone else I know."

 

"You were living in New York then, weren't you?"

 

"Yes, the whole family was by then." He sighed. "We fell in love. I never thought he could look at me that way. I knew I was...different that way, that I could see other boys that way. But I didn't dare say anything to him. We were friends but we never said or did anything about our feelings. And then one day we were messing around, joking. I was doing one of my tricks, trying to work up an act, and I couldn't get it to work. We were laughing and roughhousing and then we were kissing. I fell even harder in love with him."

 

"What became of him?"

 

"I don't know. I have no idea where he is now," Harry replied, wiping at a single tear that rolled down his cheek. "We never did more than that. We were just kids, but the feelings were real. At least they seemed...huge back then. Like they were everything. One day, we were in the cellar of the apartment building where he lived with his family. His mother had sent him down to get a box of something she had stored down there...it's funny now, but I can't remember what it was. I was visiting him there, so I went down with him. We thought it was a perfect opportunity to steal a moment for ourselves."

Arthur felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. "Someone saw you."

 

"Sherlock Holmes does it again," Harry said, but his smile was fond, even if it was sad. There was no hostility in the little joke. There wasn't much humor in it, either. "I guess we were taking too long, so his mother sent one of his brothers down to see what was keeping us. He saw us kissing. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and he ran back upstairs...I pulled away and told Anthony, but by then, his brother, Mario, came back with two of his other brothers. They were all older than us...bigger. I knew it was bad. I didn't know exactly how bad, but I knew we were in trouble. Trouble beyond the kind of trouble I'd gotten myself into before."

 

"What happened, love?" he asked gently. Harry's hand flexed in his.

 

"A lot of yelling and name-calling. I wasn't even surprised by that. And then Anthony got scared and all of a sudden, he moved away from me and he started calling me names, accusing me of doing that to him...of pouncing on him and doing this perverted thing before he could get away from me. It seemed like such an obvious lie I never thought they'd buy it. But more than that, I didn't even care what they did, at least for that moment. I loved him and he was standing there calling me all these awful names right along with them."

 

"If he could turn on you in that moment, you had no reason to believe I wouldn't turn on you over the photograph, whether we were lovers or not," Arthur said softly, kissing the back of the hand he was holding. Harry smiled faintly at that.

 

"I know what it means when you get found out. Just for a kiss between kids. I never touched him in any way...more than that." He let out a long breath. "They came at me, pushed me down, started beating and kicking me. I thought they were probably going to kill me. They were all big guys. The oldest one was twenty, so they weren't kids. They were men. It was just one big blur of blows and pain...I could feel my ribs...going. They knew how to make it hurt because they weren't hitting me hard around my head...nothing that would knock me out. I wouldn't scream for them. I made up my mind I wasn't going to give them that."

 

"Harry...I'm so sorry, darling," he said, fighting to maintain his composure.

 

"I thought maybe Anthony would get away, that maybe what he said was a ruse, a way for him to get away and get me help."

 

"He didn't stand up for you at all, did he?"

 

"I was glad he didn't, because we were so outnumbered. They would have just turned on him, beaten him too, even if he was their brother. He couldn't have stopped it. I just...I wasn't prepared..." He stopped, covering his mouth to stifle the sob that escaped. "I wasn't prepared for him to participate."

 

"Dear God," Arthur whispered, squeezing his hand.

 

"When I looked up and saw him, his face...I thought he loved me. The way he used to look at me, like I was the best thing in his world. And now he was looking at me like I was disgusting, like he hated me. He didn't just play along. He didn't even just hit me a time or two. When I was down on the floor...he brought his foot down as hard as he could, right here," Harry said, gripping his upper arm. Arthur suddenly remembered those x-rays. All those fractures that healed poorly, that weren't set properly...including the break in Harry's humerus, one of the most severe of them all. "That made me scream. The pain was...I couldn't believe it. But seeing the hate in his face when he did it...I wanted to die," he admitted, turning toward Arthur and burying his face against his chest, holding onto him desperately.

 

"Harry...darling, I'm so sorry," he whispered, holding him close, letting him purge that old pain and betrayal. "Oh, my love, all those fractures...they weren't from your stunts, were they?"

 

"Only one or two," he muttered through his sobs. Arthur couldn't help it. As he held Harry close against him, he cried with him, angry at men he could never bring to justice for what they'd done, wounded by Harry's pain, unable to get the images out of his mind of all those broken bones and the pain they represented; a life sentence of pain that Harry was still serving. All because he kissed someone he loved when he was only a boy.

 

"I passed out, I guess, because the next thing I remember, I was in my bed at home, and my mother was there, trying to figure out how to put me back together. It was just blood and bruises everywhere. The pain was so bad I wasn't even coherent most of the time."

 

"Your family couldn't afford medical care for you," he said, kissing the top of Harry's head, still holding him tight.

 

"They probably couldn't have paid to get all that fixed, but my father...at first he confronted Anthony's father. The boys were seen dumping me on our front steps, so he figured out who'd done it. When he found out why...he told my mother to do the best she could. And he told me if I ever did another perverted, deviant thing like that again, he'd disown me."

 

"So that's what your father did that hurt you so badly."

 

"I didn't lie to Addie," he clarified. "I did love my father, and he didn't do anything to me."

 

"Not seeking medical treatment for you was a crime as unforgivable as hurting you in the first place," Arthur said.

 

"He could have thrown me out in that condition and I doubt anyone would have convicted him for it. From then on, he just...ignored me. My mother took care of me, and I finally healed. Life went on, but it was like my mother was my only real friend. My only true family. My brothers and sisters knew I'd gotten into a fight, and that our father was angry about it, but that's all they ever knew." Harry pulled back a bit, wiping his face on the lapel of his robe. "No one else, besides my parents, knew the truth about what happened. No one I know now, knows anything about it."

"Thank you for entrusting me with that," he said, caressing Harry's cheek. "It makes sense now why Stafford's threat was even more horrible for you."

 

"You deserved to know. I was afraid you'd question it when you saw the x-rays. It's one of the reasons I didn't want you to look at me when my back was hurting, when I was getting sick. I knew at some point you'd probably figure out something had happened to me, and I didn't want you to know. Not then. I thought...I couldn't believe anyone could know about me and stand by me. I didn't know how you felt, or that you could feel this way. I couldn't stand to see another person I loved look at me the way Anthony looked at me when he was breaking my arm," he admitted, wiping at fresh tears.

 

"I'm sorry, but I can't imagine anything Mary or Kingsley could do, no matter how depraved or unthinkable, that would cause me not to do everything in my power to restore them to health."

 

"My father could have put me out on the street or reported me to the authorities and I'd have probably been put in some horrible place...jail or a reformatory, or something. At least he let me stay with the family. I left home soon after that anyway, but it could have been worse. It's just that every time he looked at me after that, it was this mixture of...of disgust and disappointment. And finally it was just...nothing. As if I didn't exist anymore."

 

"You're standing up for him, after how he treated you?"

 

"He was my father," Harry replied, shrugging. "I wish I hadn't been such a disappointment to him."

 

"If you were a disappointment to your father, he didn't deserve to have you as a son. If Kingsley turns out like you...he'll probably give me the rest of my gray hair and age me before my time, but I will still be remarkably proud of him."

 

"You're not just saying that to make me feel better?" Harry asked, looking in his eyes very intently. Harry Houdini, the cold reader, was waiting to evaluate him fully and determine if he was telling the truth.

 

"I am, in part, sharing that with you to make you feel better, yes, but it's still the truth."

 

"Thanks," Harry replied softly with a little grin. "I guess maybe...I keep looking at people, especially the ones who matter, and I'm always afraid I'm going to see that look. Either like I disgust them, or maybe worse, as if I don't exist at all. If Stafford had exposed me, I would have seen...everyone looking at me that way."

 

"I can't promise you what the rest of the world is going to do, but I promise you, I'll never look at you that way. I never could."

 

"You probably couldn't, Doc," Harry said, grinning, settling against Arthur, who held him close again, kissing his soft curls, wishing he could go back in time and care for him when he was so severely hurt, and feeling that much more admiration and fondness for Houdini's mother, because she did, and she was always loyal to him, even in his darkest hour.

 

He felt soft lips on his neck, Harry's fingers starting to play with his hair. He moved his head back so he could kiss him properly, passionately. Harry broke the kiss, but he stayed close.

 

"I can't..."

 

"There's more to love than just that, darling."

 

"Like more of this?" Harry asked, grinning, sounding hopeful.

 

"Yes, much more of this," Arthur replied, smiling, kissing him again. "You've never really had a lover who loved you, have you?" He didn't really mean to ask so directly, but the fact Harry seemed to feel if he couldn't provide vigorous intercourse that he was letting his partner down troubled Arthur greatly.

 

"In all fairness, I haven't loved them, either."

 

"Then I consider myself extremely fortunate," Arthur said, kissing him again.

 

"I bet the single ladies are lining up around the block now that you're back on the market."

 

"Back on the market? Good Lord, Harry, you make me sound like a blue ribbon hog at the fair."

 

"Well, among eligible bachelors, you kind of are. Rich, famous," he paused, kissing Arthur this time, "ridiculously handsome."

 

"They can continue lining up until they circle the world twice. None of them turn my head the way you do."

 

"You should probably marry one to keep up appearances."

 

"I realize that we can never admit to the real nature of our relationship, but I won't drag an innocent woman into the middle of it for show. It wouldn't be fair to her or to the children." Arthur let an unpleasant thought settle over him then. "You're not planning to take a wife, are you?"

 

"Not if you don't want me to."

 

"I don't."

 

"Then I'm not,” Harry replied, grinning.

 

"Although I know you're right. It's what we should do."

"Well, I think we gave up on what we _should_ do when we kissed the first time," Harry replied, allowing himself to be led back to bed, where they tossed robes aside and got under the covers. Arthur took the lead, holding Harry, kissing him, then kissing his neck and his shoulders, down his arm that had been hurt so badly all those years ago. Harry's leg hooked around his, pulling them closer. Arthur followed the soft skin of Harry's back down to the swell of his ass, being as gentle as he could, his hand caressing Harry's hip and his thigh as they moved against each other until the friction gave them release. They lay there together, their heartbeats and breathing slowing as they relaxed, getting ready for sleep.

 

"We'll think of ways to disguise our relationship," Arthur said, not sure if he was reassuring himself or Harry. In any event, he knew he could never just end this and walk away. Harry was in his blood, his heart, and his soul. "It's not as if the two of us, with our combined creativity, are unable to think of something clever."

 

"The world's greatest escape artist and the creator of Sherlock Holmes? Yeah, I would hope we could come up with a couple decent ideas between us."

 

"The world's greatest escape artist, are you?"

 

"You've seen a better one recently?"

 

"You are, indeed, the world's greatest, my love. Even if you couldn't fight your way out of a burlap sack."

 

Harry laughed at that, and the sound was like music to Arthur's ears. If he had his way, he would hear a lot more of that sound from the sweet man in his arms who deserved every happiness he could give him. 


End file.
